Warheads
by Myne Comix Meg
Summary: A bag of sour children hit the ground in a small, sugary explosion of green, red, orange, and yellow. They had made him angry... Rated teen for some slightly disturbing material. Not recommend for the squeamish or those unfamiliar with The Joker.


**_Warheads_**  
A Joker-centric One-Shot  
**By:** Myne* Comix Meg  
**Date: **12/14/12-01/11/13

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**For my first reviewer, Jacob C. Many thanks! Hope this one does even better!**

**Also, special thanks to ZenyZootSuit, my second encouraging reviewer: you're awesome! Thank you for your kind words!**

**_(Now go read her story! It rocks, for real!)_**

**Inspiration: a really lame pack of Sour Patch Kids. This came to me while scrubbing my bathtub. X} This takes place after the events of The Dark Knight (which I hadn't seen at the time of writing this, so please let me know if you see anything out of character. I will respond to all reviews and PMs.)**

**I do not own the Joker or Batman; only the plot, Larry Ed, and a new pack of Sour Patch Kids.**

**See if you can spot all the quotes from The Dark Knight! Someone pointed out that there are many! I didn't even notice...**

** Any "he" you see in this story in italics or in bold speaks of the One who completes him. **

**Enjoy.**

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_A bag of sour children hit the ground in a small, sugary explosion of green, _red_, orange, and yellow._

_They had made him angry..._

He didn't like those lame sour candies that the conventional, normal wimps ate. Those had no tang or bite to them at all. They disgusted him. It was like fighting a scared cop as opposed to his usual adversary, on the off occasion that _**he**_ couldn't find him, or he made it too difficult for himself to be found. All pop and poof, no lasting fizz. No zing.

No_ life_.

Perhaps that was why the convenient store owner was also thrown haphazardly on the floor, life oozing away in a steadily growing puddle of sticky crimson. No intrigue or mystery about him whatsoever. Just a whimpering, shaking coward to the end, like all the rest.

Well, no, to do him a tiny justice, not like all the rest. He did put up a very small fight. Protested his stealing of the cheap cigarette lighters, and the shooting up of the cash register.

Ah, yes, the cash register. The Precious. The shop owner had nearly had a heart attack right then and there when he'd first approached it. Did nobody get it yet, that a man like him didn't want money? Sure, he needed it now and then for "a few drums of gas and a couple of bullets" here and there. Such implements of his hazardous trade were costly these days. It had been very useful to him when escaping from Arkham Asylum For The Criminally Insane - most helpful, then, the green stuff! But he did not _want_ it. He never had. It was only impressed metal and green paper, after all. Right? It was worth much more to him - oh, so much more - when it was on fire. And plus, what good did it do when one was deceased, like the little old proprietor growing cold at his feet.

_A fleshy bag of lifeless bones, and frozen emotion hit the ground in a small, spurting explosion of_ red_, red,** red**, and_** red_._**

_He had made him angry..._

All pop and poof, no lasting fizz. No zing.

No_ life_.

Generally, he liked that. Death was a close companion. But, no. Not tonight. No, tonight he needed something with a little more butt-kick to it. Something more hard-core.

_("Something in** black Kevlar**, maybe?")_

He snarled, his favorite way of smiling.

Insensitively, - he was always insensitive about these kinds of things; he had to be - he stepped over the staring corpse, giving it a slight, derisive kick as he did so. The man had almost not been worth the using his of favorite switch-blade._ Almost_.

Irritation about how much longer this little excursion was taking than usual began ticking away in his easily agitated brain. His deep, obsidian eyes flicked hurriedly over the snack shelves, searching for that certain, special treat; that something with the extra kick in the pants.

Something to match his personality; something with a flavor like chaos.

Time momentarily stopped in his busy, firecracker mind.

He had found his prize.

Ironic, that the package was a blazoning green. Like his hair. Like his vest.

Warheads.

His permanent, razor-blade smile widened effectively. Eagerly, his purple, leather hands grasped at the object of his attentions. His pink tongue darted out and slicked his _red_ lips in preparation to devour his new-found treasure, as he tore open the packaging, quickly popping a sour bomb into his mouth. His sunken eyes fluttered closed as the taste tightened his facial muscles and puckered his scarred lips.

Delightful sensation. Almost as if his mouth - check that - his entire upper body was going to explode. He smiled. That would be gross. Beautifully gross. Make a good candy. Sour gut gummies. He wondered if perhaps some overpaid, candy genius had already thought of that and turned even more filthy, stinking rich off the novelty of candy guts or organs.

He grimaced. Money. Again, the hurricane-force winds of his thoughts caused the much-coveted green stuff to come drifting back into his mental face. Did no one else but he get it that money was no object? Literally. It was nothing. A bad joke. Money makes the world go 'round? Not _his _world. Not anyone's world, pretty soon, for that matter. The new dope in Office had spent the country's debt into oblivion; the deficit now being the only remaining factor on the funds chart. Currency-wise, the American dollar was approaching the point of not even being worth feces, and the country itself was going to pot. Bankruptcy. Another Great Depression; a Greater Depression.

Ha_ ha_.

_Funny._

No, it wasn't about the money with him; it never was. It was about sending a message - an important message that most people tried to hide from in their irritatingly normal lives._ His_ message:_ everyone_ falls.

_Everything _**burns**.

Interesting, how philosophical and ponderous candy made him. He tucked two extra bags of the sweets - funny how they were actually sours - into the depths of his huge jacket's many hidden pockets. For later, he told himself snidely. Just in case his mind or mouth needed entertaining again.

Hmm. His tongue twisted around the hard candy to poke against his scars. They felt so odd, lumpy, and dry-ish - totally different in contrast to the wet smoothness that was the rest of the inside of his cheeks. He smiled. He liked that. Being completely different both inside and out.

Sure, there were other unfortunates that bore the same facial markings; he wasn't the only man to ever receive a Chelsea Grin. Most of the others had not been as strong as he, however, and had died drowning in a puddle of their weakness. That was what usually was expected to happen. But he had never been usual, _hated_ _weakness_, and where the other few survivors of the markings did their best to hide their scars with shame, he wore his like a letter, like a badge of courage - a** red** badge of courage. Made them stand out for the world to see and cringe or gape at. After all, his mother _(did he have a mother? he couldn't remember...)_ always used to say, the most important thing a person owned was their _smile_. That had never been more true.

He didn't feel like thinking about this anymore. Something_ red_ had caught his eye. Ah, yes! His gasoline can. He'd forgotten it in his rush to dispense with the store owner. He knelt beside the body, to read the name-tag again. He cocked his head at an angle to see it better, wisps of pond-scum colored hair dangling limply into his face.

Larry Ed.

_Ha_.

_Funny name_.

If he joined the two together, his name would be Led. Which sounded a lot like lead. Which sounded an awful lot like **dead**. Which he _was_.

A low rumbling starting in his chest tumbled out from his throat and in-between his lips. If he were two people, he would love himself! But then again, sometimes he was two people; two very different people he didn't like to think about, because the one on the left - the blurry one with _yellow_ hair, and **orange**-tinted, tanned skin, serious expression and mirthless, russet eyes _("no green, no purple, no red, no red, no red, no red, **norednorednored**!")_ - was very weak, very boring. Very _normal_.

He frowned, the action contradicting his sliced grin; he didn't feel like confusing himself tonight.

He decided to laugh instead. That was always a good solution, laughter. Especially if it started with an _s_. Like a _s_mile. Or, even better...

_s_**_laughter_.**

Slapping his purple hands together loudly, - a closing gesture allowing his swirling thoughts to continue in the dark, cavernous background of his mind - he stood and marched over to the counter where sat the squatty container. Carelessly, he snatched up his pretty _red_ gas can. He liked anything **_red_**.

**Blood** was his favorite shade.

Popping the little black cap off, and flicking it away, he took a deep whiff of his favorite aroma: _gasoline_. A lazy smile purchased on his pale, painted white face. Supporting the can by holding it to his chest, he glanced around, kohl-covered pits looking for the best place to begin working his destructive magic. Where to spill first? Better to start at the back and work his way front than trap himself in with the flames that would soon occupy the building. Always made escaping heaps easier. He made a mad dash in the public restroom's general direction.

Et random, he began recklessly dousing the convenience store - dribbling a bit here, sloshing a drip there; a skip sneaking into his fire liquid foot prints as he danced through the aisles.

Rounding a corner, and throwing the now empty canister on the ground with an agitated growl, he tripped over Larry Ed. His teeth ground together as he gave dear old_ Led_ another parting kick in the head. Absently, he looked around for his treasured weapon, his over-active brain reminding him that it was not in his clenching, purple grasp. His eyes swept the floor, searching. Where was that thing?

**_Knife, knife, knife..._**

They really should_ come_ when you_ call them_...

He noticed again the sour children, still on the floor, floating and drowning in **red** life. Beside them lay his knife, tossed there mistakenly once he had become preoccupied with the candy aisle, and engrossed in high thoughts.

He snarled a yellowed grin. He really hated those things. So _under-whelming_. He grasped another warheadhead out from his great-coat in protest, and pocketed his prized possession - wiping it clean of Led beforehand, of course. Didn't want it to _rust_.

_Shiny things_ must stay _shiny_...

Sour ecstasy made his mouth water. So much better than the puny, lame ones dying on the floor beside Larry.

Hmm. The puny, lame ones. The_ weak_ ones.

His eye twitched, his cheek ticked, and his tongue massaged his scarred lower lip. His mind decided to switch courses, and as he crouched thoughtfully beside his victim, his twisting, turning thoughts went a step further.

With the puny, lame, weak ones.

He had realized something. The half-hearted sour candies reminded him of the normals. The puny, lame, weak_ normals_. So bland and dull in their scheme of everyday life. They were everywhere, trying to control everything they didn't understand; accepting only the things they thought they did. Trying to sit on the proverbial Pandora's box of chaos, thinking that would keep people like him in, when, really, if he was meant to be, he was meant to be. In Gotham, Manhattan, New York - wherever the winds of calamity blew hot, cold, or strong.

And he could _never_ be stopped. He flat-out refused.

Because then there were the warheads, the fireballs of the equation. Those little bursts of big, complicated, unpredictable flavor that were so few and far between. So hard to find. One really had to look if they wanted to find the warhead in themselves or anyone else. There were only two of those left in Gotham, in his mind. Probably in **his** mind,**_ he_** thought - knew - this, too.

The last of the true warheads. The clown and the bat. Upsetting the established order each in his own unique and explosive little way. They were so different, the very flip sides of a coin. Harvey-Harvey-Two-Face-Dent's coin, for instance. Or a playing card. The Joker card, to be exact. So alien and yet the same._** Completed**_. One existing as an entity simply because the other still lived and breathed, and vice versa.

They both answered to the call of Mother_ Gotham _and Father_ Fire_.

The _family_ ties.

The family _ties_.

Ha_ ha_.

Suddenly, his musings popped like a cartoon thought bubble inside his head, and his inner voices went silent, vision swimming as he stood. He gripped the counter and the bridge of his nose simultaneously to steady his swaying form. He had to get out of there. The fumes were starting to get to him, making him muddled, dizzy. Maybe it was just his rapidly spinning thoughts.

Haphazardly, he dug deep into his shadowy and mysterious jacket, and finding the objects he desired, he began scattering most of the previously stolen lighters in a derogatory heap on Larry Ed's chest. A devious cackle threatened to poke out of his mouth. They had found their true purpose in_ him_. Forget lighting cancer sticks; let's light up the Narrows, Gotham - the _world_! A soft, slippery smile graced his shattered lips and psyche. He liked that idea.

Ah _ha_.

One of them was _red_.

He thrust it back into the labyrinth of his coat.

"Here," he spoke finally, "you can, ah, _keep_ some of 'em. I don't want these anymore. They're on you - literally - and I could never_ pay_ you back, as I have nothing to pay _with_!"

A manic giggle erupted from his lips as, emptying his pockets of more of the plastic implements, he intoned, squatting once more to speak directly into Led's ear, "Ya, see, I tried to tell ya I wasn't a bad guy. I've just always been one step ahead of chumps like you -_ I'm already dead, inside_."

He paused, adjusting himself closer to the silent corpse, glancing around cautiously as was his habit, even though no one was around to hear a word he said.

"And you know what, Led," he continued, popping a new warhead into his mouth with finality, and placing a mocking, good-bye pat on the unfortunate shopkeeper's balding head, "now, you're just like** me**!"

The distinct _shink! _of unsheathed, stainless steel death echoed ominously in his ears.

"All that's missing is your smile! Come on! Lighten up, Led!"

He bared his sharp, yellowed teeth menacingly.

**"Why so_ serious_?"**

Then, he laughed, and this time, Larry Ed's mouth joined him in eternal, _red_ merriment...

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Bursting out of a stuffy, claustrophobic store into the inky, black night by slamming through a now glass-less shop door, - he had shot it all out when he first broke in; including the annoying, jingly bell above it that had screamed the entrance of its last customer - came a certain chaotic, purple-clad clown.

He inhaled deeply of the sharp, frigid December air as it slammed against his body, cold, and harsh. He threw his arms wide open, accepting it, letting the speed of the wind push them back. His murky, mud-brown eyes fluttered back as he took it in through his open mouth, gulping it down selfishly, stealing as much of it as he could. It burned his lungs, and made the inside of his nose tingle.

Such a wonderful thing, this being alive! He felt, oh, so much from so many things! He really loved life! To bad he had to take it from so many others. They had been unworthy, though, in his mind.

It was nothing personal! No, no, really! As he had told Harvey-Harvey-Two-Face-Dent while consoling him about his "little bunny", - he could never remember her name; poor What's-Her-Face and Two-Face - it was nothing personal. Most of the time, anyway. And you could believe him when he said that. Truly.

But enough pondering. It was time to get the party started. Time to summon the terror of the night, the watchful Demon of Gotham City. To begin the night with fireworks, of his favorite kind, he would perform his specialty:** roast building**.

Quickly, soullessly, he lit a match. It sparked a heart-warming glow with the acrid scent of sulfur. He smelt the smoke from it as it slowly flickered, and began to draw from its source the power to burn. Without a care in the world, or a thought for the dead man inside, he flicked it behind him into the gasoline soaked building.

A second ticked by as his lips parted. He caught his breath, adrenaline beginning to pump through his veins, pupils dilating in expectation.

A flash of light, white, not the orange-_red_ of fire.

He blinked in slow-motion.

Then, he ran.

Fast.

_Gasoline and sky thunder rolled, and fire consumed and devoured; drops of ash and rain began to fall._

_They had_ **all**_ made him angry..._

Uncontrollable gales of laughter ripped from his chest, flying wildly into the night as he threw his head back and up at the sky. Calling the Batman to the flames of the burning building and the flame of their ongoing fight. He had broken out of Arkham just for this specific purpose; the Bat could not possibly disappoint him now. No, it was not in his nature to disappoint the clown often... He would come.

_He would_ always_ come._

Raindrops cleansed the skin of his wrists, neck, and face, cooling it from its close mask of paint. The now pouring rain pelting his drenched body, as he drank of the merciless downpour, tasting it with his tongue. He could swear it had a hint of blood and fire and smoke. And Bat.

Another hacking cackle escaped his wide-open mouth, echoing hauntingly through the deserted streets.

"You and I are destined to do this_** forever**_," sang the Joker, as loud and as long as he could, shouting it to the stars. The burning, flaming stars...

He continued to run deeper into the Narrows.

Yes, the warheads - _all_ of them - were going to have a blast tonight... Of that, he was certain.

And you could believe him when he was certain.

Truly. You could...

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Fin.

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**Reviews are enlightenment. X}**


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